everybody wants to rule the world
by dragondark
Summary: A professor hires Mick to solve the disappearances of his students. Beth investigates the ties of a mysterious new club downtown to a rising crime wave. Things get bloody when their trails collide, leading to... complications. [MickBeth]
1. prologue

disclaimer: None of the characters - except, perhaps, the weedy professor and Richard Corinthian - in the following belong to me, but to CBS and the television show _Moonlight_.  
notes: Why doesn't Moonlight have its own section yet? Just saying - we're kind of owning the Misc. Television Shows.

Anyway! Originally posted to the Moonlight Fics community on LJ. Written and set after the fourth episode (Fever), so any information from the fifth may and/or will be inaccurate or missing from this fic. It's a three-chapter arc (discounting prologue and epilogue) intended to play out like an episode - and it gets incredibly AU.

Enjoy the ride.

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Everybody Wants To Rule The World**

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prologue

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Television's got one thing right. 

Night descends on the city, seeping through streets strewn with broken glass, torn papers, all the scattered debris that results from humanity. It snakes a finger of shadow through the alleys, where the men in boxes shiver and women warm their hands over fires burning in trash cans. Finally, stealing past one last corner, it falls prey to the blaring lights of a club.

_For all the vampires in the world, there are slayers, too._

A throng circles the closest alley mouth, pushing inward. Their eyes are bright; their mouths are fanged.

_There're even less of them than there are of us, and they ask a pretty steep price when they want to, but one way or another, they make themselves available. If you really want one, it's not hard to find them._

And it's a riot of bloody monochrome - the spattered black of blood under moonlight and bone-white skin, tossed with lurid emeralds and sparkling blues by the barren lamps and neon party lights.

_Don't get me wrong. Your TV doesn't have all the facts straight. It's not always a pretty blonde with a stake. They can come in pretty much any package "crazy" is available in. And just as vampires don't burst into flames in the sun or hide from the shape of a cross, the weapons that the slayers use are... different._

Thrown here and there throughout the crowd, humans fight back, gripping machine guns and flamethrowers as the monsters advance. Their features are dissimilar - old, young, dark of complexion and finely freckled - but dragged into fierce similarity by the looks in their eyes: a cold certainty that borders on madness as they turn upon the very crowd.

_Most of the slayers you find are the ones that have survived years in the field. They're professional._

And they're winning.

_And a lot more dangerous._

Fighting their way through the broken remnants of vampires, some hold down the fort for a retreat while others open the door to a van and begin to pile in the bodies. One of the slayers grunts as the arm of a staked vampire flops out; his eyes skim over the monster's features as he shoves it back in.

It isn't unattractive, for a monster: glazed blue eyes, curly dark hair, and a mouth with fangs half-retracted, as if torn away in the middle of speech. The card in his pocket reads: "Mick St. John: PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS."

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_to be continued_

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feedback: is probably impossible, given how little there is to respond to in this part. The first chapter will be up in a few days. 


	2. ONE: three hours ago

disclaimer: I own Richard Corinthian and the Namiaglien. Nothing about Moonlight, alas - that's CBS's territory.  
notes: First posted to the Moonlight Fics community on Livejournal. Written and set after the fourth episode (Fever), so any information from the fifth may and/or will be inaccurate or missing from this fic. It's a three-chapter arc (discounting prologue and epilogue) intended to play out like an episode.

**

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Everybody Wants To Rule The World**

**- **

chapter one: _three hours ago_

**-**

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"Mr. St. John?"

The man curled up by Mick's front door rose to his feet in a sudden burst of chalk dust. He hastily brushed off his wrinkled tweed suit, eyeglasses bouncing in his pocket, as Mick gave him a long glance.

"These aren't my office hours--"

"Please, if I could have but a moment of your time. It's urgent."

Mick shook his head, ducked beneath a flailing arm, and started to open his door. "How did you get in here?"

"I bribed the doorman," the old man said, rather desperately. "I'm wealthy, you see. Please, you're my last resort, I swear to you I've nobody else to go to. And I can promise you that it's worth your while."

Ignoring the rest of the man's words, Mick cocked his head to a side and inhaled slowly. Images flashed of classrooms, the profound roar of young students in an open auditorium, the man's white hands chalking notes on a creaky old board. Nothing of blood, and the sweat that had beaded on his skin seemed born of only mild fear and regular California heat. As the door opened before them, he relented. "Come in," he said.

Blinking in terrified gratitude, the professor walked in. Following, Mick closed the door behind them both.

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"It's like this, you see," the professor said much later, but glanced up bright-eyed as Mick's shadow curved over his shoulder. "Ah! Tea." His trembling hands accepted a mug. "You're a saint." He inhaled. "Mm. Earl Gray. And a conoisseur, to boot."

His own hands empty and bare, Mick seated himself on the opposite couch. "You were about to say something about your case?"

"Oh! Yes. My name is Edmund Milton. I teach at the university - high-level courses in comparative politics." He plucked the glasses out of his pocket and placed them on his nose, adjusting them carefully as he studied Mick. "Perhaps you've heard of me?"

"I'm afraid not," Mick said. A patient moment passed. "Your case, Mr. Milton?"

"Yes, well. I'm afraid this is a bit hard for me to say." He set the cup down n the glass table and leaned on his folded hands. "My students. They've-- well. They've all disappeared."

"What makes you think they're connected?"

"Well, they all enjoyed my class. Bright, brilliant young people. Clearly going somewhere in the world. But one day they were there and the next -- nobody had seen them. The thing is," he held up a finger, "the thing is that they weren't friends outside of class. I handpick my students for this course every year - it's a very selective, competitive process - and I don't think two of them even shared a major, let alone any personal interests."

"And how long ago did these disappearances occur?"

"I only realised it this morning, when none of them showed up." Before Mick could respond, the professor hurried on. "I know what you must think, but their only connection's my class! Well, they were all young with all the accoutrements of being young - charm, physically attractive - but I've wracked my brains and that can't be the connection. I've called their homes, but either their roomies haven't seen 'em or nobody answers the phone."

Mick leaned back. "And you've come to me--"

"--because the police about are damned violent buggers!" the professor burst out. "With me as their only connection, suspicion would, of course, fall on me immediately. Particularly since..."

"Since?"

The professor cleared his throat. "I make it a point," he said stiffly, "to be close to my students. Some have cast aspirations at my closeness to them in the past - most vulgar theories. I won't sully the air by mentioning them. But in terms of... of suspicious disappearances, they immediately look to the absentee's dearest to see who might have most reason to want them gone. And I'm not in that circle, but that I was friends with them, and I so old and they so young..."

"I understand." Mick rose.

The professor leapt up with him. "You'll take my case? If there's any worry about money, I assure you that I'll pay it regardless. But everything for me is at risk here. Expense is of no object, and I--"

"Mr. Milton." The professor fell silent. "I'm taking your case." There were only a few idle speculations and the usual tracks that Josef had set him on to occupy him for now; business had been slow. Fortunately, regardless of how business went, Mick was relatively safe in terms of finance. He never had to worry about groceries, after all. "Consider it at the top of my list."

"God." The professor shut his eyes. "God. God. Thank you." He made to fling his arms about Mick, but when he received only an impassive, professional stare, refrained. Stepping back, he reached for his pocket. "And I -- I don't know how to say this, but..."

"I don't need a bribe, Mr. Milton."

"Oh! Well, then..." He hesitated. "When can I expect to hear from you?"

"When I've found something. I'll start looking this afternoon. If you could just give me the names, numbers, and addresses of the students as soon as you can..."

"Absolutely! I've got them right here, matter of fact." He brandished a thick folder at Mick. He dropped to a harsh, clandestine whisper. "And I hope I can trust in your ability to be discreet. Er, keep a secret, so to speak."

Accepting the files, Mick bent to drop them on the table. With his eyes turned away, his voice was completely steady as he said, "Trust me, Mr. Milton. I can keep a secret."

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"And this doesn't strike you as unusual?"

Her boss sighed, planting herself on the edge of Beth's desk, heedless to the papers she was nudging towards the edge. Her cameraman eyed them, but didn't seem to dare to move. "Girl," she said, "you just don't look a gift horse in the mouth. Case it bites you on the nose, is my guess. Not everything has to mean something."

"It doesn't interest you that there's been absolutely no crime increase in this one little area when it's hit new highs everywhere else?" Beth said incredulously. "Why not?"

For this, she received the evil eye. "You've got that look again."

Despite herself, Beth half-smiled. "What look?"

"The look that means that whether I want you to or not, you're going to be chasin' this wild goose all around the city. Aren't you."

She glanced hastily down at her computer and busied herself typing something, anything, the first words that drifted to mind. "Maybe."

Her boss exhaled sourly. "Well, God knows you've got some lucky breaks before. You think this is one of 'em?"

"Yes," Beth said, and turned an earnest look upward. Her hands stilled. "I really do."

"Fine." Dropping to her feet, she turned and slapped a slim manila folder onto the space she had occupied on Beth's desk. "The jewelry store robbery report will be waitin' for you when you get back. If you decide that your gut feelin' got distracted by one too many fajitas at lunch today."

Beth grinned. "Thanks! You're an amazing--"

"No, I'm just crazy." Over the curve of her shoulder as she sauntered off, she shot Beth a parting look. "Don't make me look like it, now. I've got appearances to keep up."

"Absolutely," Beth promised. The cameraman peered over her head.

"What are you typing?" he said, bewildered. "--Is that a name?"

Startled, she whipped back. "Um," she said, and read the word she'd been patiently repeating for several lines while she talked. After a moment, her finger struck the DELETE key. Beth whirled to face him in her chair and tried a smile. "No? Look, you go take pictures of the jewelry store; I'll see if there's anything to cover down in Quietsville."

She didn't wait to hear him acquiece; a moment's space and she had seized her coat and flung herself out the door.

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The area, she found, was little more than a single long street, crammed end to end with boutiques and clubs. Men in suits laughed at private jokes on their cell phones. Slim women with long limbs leaned against lamp posts, curling their lips alluringly. Blue-haired girls swayed by the blaring doors of a club, casting envious looks inside to the stammering lights.

Tangled in the throaty, sensual music, Beth wandered closer to peer inside. In the enigmatic dark she could just faintly see arms flung up, pearly with the sweat of dance. At the door, an enormous bouncer gave her a foul look.

"Interested in going in?" a voice said at her ear. Bolting upright, she swung around to confront the speaker. A stranger laughed and stepped back, holding his hands up in amused dismay. He was roughly her height, with dark hair and a twisty half-smile that reminded her of someone.

Her lips half-parted, she cocked her head and narrowed her eyes at him. "Do I know you?"

"Ah, if my luck were so good--! No, I'm afraid not." He stuck out a hand. "Richard Corinthian."

She grasped his fingers, which were pleasantly cool in the lingering autumn heat. "Beth Turner."

He grinned. "Wish I had a name that short to share. I tried to be Rick for a while but, you know, it just didn't work out. So," he nodded at the doors. "Club?"

"O-oh, no. I'm here on business."

"Here," he said, dubiously.

"Yeah. I, um. I can't really explain it." She smiled politely. "Just following a story."

"Must be a hell of a story if it's taken you to this part of town." He tucked his hands into his pockets. "Guess I can't ask you what the story's about, huh? Exclusive scoop, and all that."

"Well, if it works out, I'm sure you'll see it on BuzzWire -- the place I work for."

Richard laughed. "I hope so! It'd be a pleasure to see your face again anywhere, Miss Turner." He gestured about the street. "If you need some background information for this place, though, pick me. Please. I've got connections all over this area."

"Pick you? What," she said, amused, "do you have a complex left over from third grade, or something?"

He looked noble and rueful. "Yeah. I was always the last kid standing in gym class. It was very sad. But, a sample: that club's selective. Nobody knows what goes on in there and the people who come out aren't telling. There's always a party, twenty-four seven. Pretty mysterious."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," Richard said airily. "Thing is, though, that club's only been open since the crime wave started. You're a reporter, you know about the crime wave, right?" He didn't wait for her answer. "There are rumors that the people who run the club are tied into why crime's down in this district, too. Nobody's figured out the connection. Maybe only criminals get picked to go inside. Maybe they dance out their energy until they're too tired to rob anything." He stopped to flash her another smile. "Hey," he said. "Tell me if I'm killing you with the boredom. I get that a lot."

She couldn't suppress another laugh. "It's okay," she said. "It's actually kind of interesting. So there are actually theories that the club's tied to the crime wave somehow?"

"Yep."

"Well, you said you had connections. Can you get me in there? You know, so I can check it out firsthand?"

He gave her a sorrowful look. "What, all checking and no dancing?"

The conversation was skirting more dangerous ground now. Lightly, however, Beth said, "Well, I'm pretty sure that my boyfriend would be upset if I went dancing without him, even if it was for a report."

Richard grinned, wholly at ease. "So bring him with you, if you want. Whenever, you know. This evening, maybe. It's open to all hours and it's always got just the right amount of people, so there's never a bad time."

"They should have you doing their advertising."

"I'm not quite attractive enough."

"You--" Beth stopped herself. "Are you fishing for compliments?"

Shamelessly, he grinned again. "Maybe. Do you have something to write with and something to write on?" She reached for her purse, found a pen and a slip of paper, and handed both to him. Using a wooden post, he wrote a number down. "Call me when you want to get in," he said. "I don't exactly keep regular hours, so I doubt you'll be waking me up. And we'll see what I can do for you."

She tucked the slip back into her purse, oddly touched. "Thank you," she said.

In the growing dusk, she was losing track of his face; all she could see was the flash of white teeth as he smiled. "Anything for a beautiful lady," he said.

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His voice rang out as she closed the door. "Beth!" And Josh was striding toward her. He gripped her wrists, drew them up and kissed her knuckles in absent warmth; his mouth was set and sharp. "Where have you been?"

She laughed delightedly up at him. "I was following a story," she said. "Josh, you would not believe--"

"Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"It's barely eight." A confused smile flitted at the corners of her mouth. "Is this some kind of game?"

"Game? I was worried _sick_ about you and you--"

Her amusement faded; her lips pursed. "You know I work late sometimes." Her hands tumbled to her sides; he let go of her in hurt surprise. "What's this really about?"

He turned from her, pacing to the window, which looked out into the muted, glittering lights of the city. "Beth, crime is rising in all corners of the city. It's practically doubled in some areas and it's already dark out. And you think I shouldn't be worried?"

"Well," she said, and drew a breath. "I'm sorry. But I had to follow the story."

"I know," said Josh without looking at her. "I'm just-- I don't think it's such a good idea for you to wander around in the dark right now."

"What?"

"Beth, please. Just until this -- whatever it is -- dies down. Don't go out after sunset."

"It's my job," she said flatly.

"To get yourself killed?"

"I think I've got a lead on the crime wave."

"Great." He turned. "So turn it in to the police and cover their investigation. Don't go poking around by yourself."

"Josh, come on." She managed a flickering smile. "I've covered worse stories than this before. What's wrong?" He sighed heavily. Beth approached him, cautiously, as she might a skittish animal. "You can tell me."

Tiredly, he met her eyes. "There's something wrong with all of these... murders and robberies and..."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," he pushed his hair back, "the police are nailing a lot of people, but so far it's mostly just been a bunch of petty thieves. The homocide rate's hit all new highs and they have no idea why, or who. Sometimes they don't even know how. It's like a bunch of people spontaneously decided that they were going to become criminals all at once."

"Huh." She leaned into the window beside him. "Well, that's weird."

He pulled her close. "Beth," he said, into her hair.

"What?"

"You're not going to put any of this in a report, are you?"

Abruptly, Beth drew back again. "Josh," she said, "what do you think I do?"

"That was off the record!"

He sounded his familiar mix of exasperated and dry, and she felt a smile start on her lips at his tone. "You didn't say it. You know the rules..."

She'd misread him. She realised it as soon as she saw his gaze: hollow and shadowy and, at the very bottom, afraid to the marrows of his bones. Josh wasn't the heroic type. He'd never been. He liked saving people and serving justice, but deep down, he had never understood how people could be anything other than good. "This isn't some kind of game, Beth! It's serious. The police have no idea what they're getting into. People are getting killed!" He reached out and shook her. "_You_ could be killed."

"So relax." She laid her hands at either side of his arms. "I'll ask Mick to go with me."

"Oh, well." At the mention of Mick, his voice seemed to run sharper still. "If _Mick's_ going..."

"Josh--" but he wouldn't meet her eyes. Incredulously, she said, "Are you jealous of him?"

"The guy's a great investigator, I'll admit it. But I don't like having him around you. It's not jealousy--" he raised his hands to ward off her retort, "-- I just think that things have a tendency of getting even more screwed up than they already are when Mick gets involved. And we don't need the situation getting any worse than it already is."

Beth scoffed. "Then what am I supposed to do? Not go out? You don't even know how long this is going to last!"

"Not forever, I know that."

"Oh, good." Her mouth pulled into a thin line. "You know, I've been wanting to be a grounded teenager again."

"It's not like that."

"Then what is it like? You're treating me like I can't take care of myself."

"And if you'd heard some of the charges that we've been filing at the office, you wouldn't trust yourself alone on the streets either." His hands curved out helplessly. "Beth. Please. Just for a little while."

The moment drew taut between them. At last, Beth's shoulders slumped. "Okay," she promised. Just as Josh started to speak, she swept on: "But not tonight. I've got one loose end to tie up."

Josh blinked. Then he laughed: a cracked, unfamiliar noise that was startlingly unhappy. "I didn't ask you to do this just because it'd annoy you. It's getting dangerous out there. But it doesn't matter, does it? No matter what, ace reporter Beth Turner's always going to get her story. Even if it has to air over her dead body."

"Josh--"

"You know, maybe it wasn't such a good idea for me to--" He cut the words off and swung brusquely back to the window.

"For you to what?" she said softly. The room seemed awful and small around them.

"Nothing. It's nothing."

"No, y-you know, it's obviously not _nothing_ if you almost say it! What did you mean, Josh?" He didn't answer, but his hands on the windowsill were shaking. She pressed him. "What did you mean?"

"Obviously you think you know," he said harshly. "Why bother even asking me? Or do you need it spelled out clearly for your viewers?" He pressed his hands over his eyes. His voice softened again, breaking into gentleness. "I don't think I can do this. Not tonight." Marching to the desk, he seized his keys. "I'm going back to the office," he said. "I'll be working late. Don't wait up."

In the moments it took for her to clear her eyes and straighten, he was gone.

Somehow, she found her way to the couch, though she nearly tripped over the leg of a table twice. Ankles crossing, wrists placed carefully over her knees, she sat and fought the bitter fear clumping in her throat.

When she could trust herself to speak again, Beth reached for her purse. It cost her only a moment's clumsy fumbling before she found it: crumpled into a pinched fold, but still legible. Smoothing it out, she set it on the table and dialed.

It picked up almost immediately. "Richard Corinthian. Performing decidedly unBiblical Corinthian acts since the beginning of the world! How may I serve you today?"

She cleared her throat. "Richard?"

"Ah!" His tone grew warmer. "Is that the lovely Beth? Well, of course, it must be. I don't know any other women who'd call me."

"Yeah... About tonight." She looked down, fiddling absently with her shirt. "Can-- can you do it in an hour? Get me inside?"

She heard him laugh. "You've no idea. Apparently the Namiaglien would let you and an army inside in the next five minutes if I asked them to. Which I would do if you asked me to."

Beth smothered a damp smile. "Yeah, sure, that'd be perfect." Despite her state, her voice glimmered with irony. "If only there wasn't all that traffic in the way."

"Traffic is the bane of the modern world," he agreed. "If only we could teleport, or if we had superspeed. How much better off the world would be! But I digress. An hour, you said? And you're bringing the boyfriend with you?"

"Ah--" She drew another shuddering breath. "No. He's not coming. He had... work."

There was a long static silence on the other end. Richard's voice echoed down the line with something like sympathy. "Another time, then," he said. "It isn't as if the club's going to grow legs and walk off. Although it'd be a marvel to see if it did, worthy of even your reports."

In spite of herself, her mouth curved up. "I might bring someone else, though," she told him.

"All right. Would this be a second boyfriend you didn't tell me about in that first deep talk we had? I wouldn't put it past you to have a harem. Who could resist your spell?"

"Tell me," Beth said dryly, "does talking like this ever get you anywhere?"

"Probably not," came the cheerful reply, "but it's fun going in circles. Or so said the song about the wheels on the bus that go 'round and 'round, and that was in my kindergarten class, so I believe it."

"All right, then. Meet you at the club in an hour."

Richard sighed tragically. "I'm using up my best material on you, and I don't even get a parting laugh? Ah, cruel!" And he hung up.

Immediately, Beth's expression dimmed. As she set the phone to dial a new number, her hand hesitated. She stared down bleakly, unmoving and wondering.

-

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Like the others before him, the eleventh student's apartment was empty. As an upper-classman, the student had lived off-campus, though on the side of town traditionally too expensive for college students. Rather than test himself against the lock - which had looked ominously complex from the wrong side - the doorman, and the various cameras placed strategically throughout the hallways, Mick had elected instead for the easier option.

Well, it had seemed easier eight storeys ago.

Fortunately, trusting in the heights to ward away any potential thieves, the student had left his window unlatched. Reaching out with his free hand, Mick shoved it open, then carefully moved from the drain pipe into the apartment.

It looked undisturbed, as if its inhabitant had only departed for a night and would be back at any moment to fling himself across the sofa, trail his hands across the framed photographs on his desk, pound away at the electronic keyboard placed at the far end of the room...

The professor had been right. This was nothing like the second student's apartment - which had held a pile of roach corpses in one corner - or the first's neat ghost of a room in a dorm. To all appearances, there was no connection between any of the students beyond the professor.

Colored paper flashed bright at the edge of his eye. With a frown, Mick turned to inspect it. It crinkled as he picked it up and started to read.

No connection, beyond one.

His phone started to shrill as his narrowed eyes leapt over the bold and familiar words. Slipping it from his pocket, he didn't even glance at the number before he answered. "Yeah?"

A crackling burst of sensual music curled out from the phone. Then, a more familiar voice spoke: "Mick?"

His hand tightened. "Beth? Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing. I just -- I'm trying to do some background research for a story, and I was wondering if you could meet me. It's not exactly safe downtown right now, if you haven't heard."

Occasionally he wasn't sure whether she knew how closely he followed her career on BuzzWire, but it had never seemed right to ask; it led too easily to too many other things of which they couldn't speak. Instead, it became only one of the many subjects unbroached between them.

Mick took care to sound perfectly neutral as he answered. "Are you sure that Josh would want you to call me?"

She laughed, a sharp and bitter ripple. "He had a chance to give me a list of people he'd like better. He passed." There was a little twist in her voice as she added, "Besides, I'd be safer with you, wouldn't I?"

For a long space, he didn't speak. When he found words at last, he said only, "When do you want me to meet you?"

"I'm already there," came her answer, dry as dust. "Standing outside the Namiaglien right now. I'll go inside when you get here."

"The Namiaglien?" He placed the name. "You want me to meet you at a nightclub?"

"Is that bad?" A light, teasing note threaded through her tense voice. "I thought you vampires were all about partying in the dark."

"Beth..."

"What?"

"What kind of story is this?"

A little hiss of breath leapt between her teeth in clenched laughter. "Get here and you can find out with me," she said. "You will meet me here, right? You're not busy with anything?"

Ruefully, Mick glanced down at the sheet in his hand - the sheet that patient combing had unveiled at each of the apartments: a garish flyer wrung with velvet reds and golds, declaring that, to select individuals, they were PRESENTING THE NAMIAGLIEN.

"No," he said, eyes tracing the arching dark dancers flung across the page. "I'm not busy."

-

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-

"Great," Beth said, shifting from foot to foot. Inside, they had switched songs to something sweeter. The melody twined about her ankles, coaxing her to dance. There was no sign of Richard, but from the prominent lack of evil eye delivered by the bouncer, she guessed that he'd arranged for an ongoing invitation. At least something was going her way this evening. "How soon can you get here?"

"Give me a few minutes," Mick said, sounding focused and calm as ever. Even in the warm evening, the closeness of his voice made her shiver. "I'll be right there. Don't go in without me."

She adjusted the phone against her shoulder. "Why, have you heard something, too?"

"No." After a moment, he added, "Just be careful."

"I will," she said, and he hung up.

Clicking off on the phone, she stared off into the night. If anything, in the past few hours the street had grown more crowded still. Men in tight leather outfits and ladies trailing silk were waltzing cheek to cheek on the sidewalk; girls pranced by, arm in arm and choking on laughter. Everyone seemed to have come together; everyone seemed to have a secret to enjoy.

Beth folded her arms and tried not to stick out of the crowd like the queen of sore thumbs. To a certain point, Josh had been right after all. For one reason or another, she should have waited and come with someone else.

She kicked idly at the trash scattered on the ground, stepped back to avoid a patch of still-wet gum, and backed directly into someone. Reeling from the impact, she started to turn to apologise.

But the stranger's hand came around too quick. It clamped over her mouth as an arm curved over her waist and dragged her back into the shadows of the Namiaglien.

-

-

-

Dusk had swept in and washed the city in bleak shadows; Mick stalked through them heedlessly, following by instinct a path that would lead him to the street of the Namiaglien. The eleventh student lived quite close to the club, which was fortunate. Given the sudden choke of traffic in the streets, he couldn't have driven there with any speed; but with a vampire's quickness he might make it, as he had promised.

Beth couldn't be safe there by herself. He had to get there as soon as possible.

Snared in his own thoughts, he didn't realise he was being tailed until two blocks after they had fallen in behind him. Then, all at once, he felt them: wafting in the world as he knew it through scent. Their persistence told him that he was being followed; the unmistakable stench of decay warned him that they were vampires.

Quickening his steps, he doubled back and ducked through alleys, wove his way through the mazy paths of Los Angeles' underbelly. And still they chased him, undeterred, and Beth was waiting and open to any attacker who decided that a blonde for the night would make a nice prize, and there was no point in running any further if they would only drive him further off-course.

He turned instead to face them, his back to a wall. At the mouth of the alley, illumined by a variety of street lights, Mick counted three.

Three vampires following him for no reason he could name.

Hurting them would teach them nothing; vampires could regenerate nearly any damage that wasn't fatal, and he had lost both strength and heart for the kind they couldn't heal. Killing them would leave bodies, and Mick would be in debt to the Cleaner, the kind of vampire nobody wanted to owe.

His best bet, he reflected, was to immobilize them and send them to Josef. Josef could find some use for them; and unlike Mick, Josef had a thousand discreet quick ways to dispose of the bodies once they were no longer convenient.

Carefully, with clear and level eyes, Mick reached to a broken crate at his side.

And then he could do nothing else as, with clear growls, they fell upon him.

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_to be continued_

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feedback: makes me obscenely happy.

Well. Not obscenely. But, you know, happy.


	3. TWO: the battles that seem

disclaimer: I don't own _Moonlight_, never have, and never will. CBS should retain all rights for a very long time, and will hopefully use them for more seasons. :D  
author's note: You know the drill. Originally posted to Moonlight Fics on Livejournal, no spoilers, set after the fourth episode but written before the fifth, eventually Mick/Beth with a cameo appearance from virtually every characters in the series. (Except for Guillermo. And the police guy that Beth seems to have wrapped around her finger, given how easily she gets into crime scenes.)

Happy Candy Day, guys.

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chapter two:_ the battles that seem_

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Faced with three vampires, Mick pried back a slim board from a crate. It fell to splinters as his hand tightened around it.

The first vampire rushed him as he scrabbled for a second piece, tackling him against the wall. Its grip tightened around his neck, choking him. Seizing the bones of its forearms, he braced one foot on brick and lashed out with another, sending it reeling into the other two vampires.

As they scrambled to collect themselves, his fingers closed around a second loose board. It came free easily with a crack, thin and flat and inconvenient in his hand. But it was wood, and sharp; on the spur of the moment, he could hardly ask for a better makeshift stake.

Disentangled, one of them stumbled toward him again; he seized its collar and swung it against the bricks. One hand drew back to impale it on the board--

"Mick St. John," someone said by the alleyway entrance. "We need to talk."

He rested the point of the sliver over the vampire's heart and became aware that the other two had stopped. When he turned to look, he found them standing at either side, blocking his escape with little growls. "That's funny," he panted. "Didn't seem like it was talking they wanted. Unless it was in body language."

"Clever," the Cleaner said, pacing out of the shadows. Her clear old features were hard with discontent. "But clever doesn't get you everywhere in life. Take Josef."

Unconsciously, his shoulders squared. "What about him?"

"Relax. I'm not trying to convince you to plot against him. I'm not that stupid." She met his gaze with a flinty look. "But some people might be."

"What have you heard?"

"Couple of things, here and there. He's losing control, Mick. Gotten in too deep. If you want him to live and to keep on living, you'll tell him to back off."

Mick exhaled in a rough laugh. He glanced around. "So that's what this is about."

The Cleaner's eyes narrowed. "It's not about giving him a warning through you, Mick. It's about giving you a warning so that Josef doesn't lose his head. Literally."

"So, uh, why tell me? Why not tell Josef directly?"

"Josef never listens to anybody but himself. You know him; you know that. But you - you're on the right track. And if you keep going, you're going to figure something out that might help him make the right choice."

"If I'm on the right track, then why'd you stop me?"

"Because you have no idea what you're going up against, any more than Josef does." She crossed her arms. "You're not a waste of blood, Mick St. John. You deserved the warning."

"Great," Mick said. "Any other cryptic messages you want to deliver before you go?"

"Yeah," she said. "Don't be surprised when you find out." She beckoned idly to the last vampire. With a grunt, he shoved Mick's arm, jostling the stake, and ran. "Me and Josef, our arrangement's been good. But the bodies in paradise are going to start turning up soon. Either he's going to have to work with that, or I'll make a deal with someone else who can." With that, she pivoted on her heel and started to walk away, a long tail of hair swaying behind her.

Shooting Mick a few last narrow looks, her vampires trailed silently after, leaving Mick alone in the alley.

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Beth had learned.

There had been the student in the vampire cult, the hitman in the Leni Hayes case, and before that a thousand images reflected in the media of victimised women: women at risk. When push came to shove, she knew nothing about fighting. But on a street corner in a dark night, with a stranger's arms binding around her, she knew enough. She shoved an elbow back, sank her teeth into his palm as she heard his breath blow out, and twisted up his arm while he was distracted to wrestle herself out of his grip.

He cried out. She checked herself. Then, as it sank in, her nails dug into his wrist. "_You_," she said, her voice like raw glass.

"Barely gave me a chance before you stomped all over me," Richard said feebly. "God, I feel like an elephant just did the entire production of _The Nutcracker _on my side."

"What the _hell_ were you doing?"

"In my defense, can I just say - ow, and also, ow? Remind me never to sneak up on you again."

Her eyes were thin, mouth a pressed red slice. "You'll never have the chance."

He glanced up wanly at her blazing expression. "Just wanted to give you a bit of a scare," he said, holding up a hand in defense. "A joke. You looked like the blonde stereotype in every horror movie since Dracula." He touched his ribs gingerly. "Pretty sure that the boogeyman would have shut himself up in his closet before he'd face you, though."

She made a contemptuous noise and started to walk away.

"Hey, hey, hey." Before she could make it too far, he snatched her wrist. His mouth twisted coaxingly as he held on; not so lightly that she couldn't break away, but solidly enough that she couldn't easily shake him off. "Trust me. The serial killer would have stayed home and collected stamps instead."

Beth rounded on him. "What do you want?"

"Vampires would take up wood-carving before messing with you." Seeing that he wasn't winning her over, he grew serious. "Look, I just want to help."

"Oh yeah? That might have been easier," she wrenched at her hand, "before you attacked me."

Doggedly, he hung on. "Hey, I'm the one who's going to bruise in the shape of all seven continents tomorrow. What have you got to complain about?" She looked unconvinced. He tugged gently; she fixed him with a wintry stare and he loosed her, still wryly smiling. "Look, I'm sorry. I promise I won't do it again, now that I know that you probably sharpen your elbows at night. My god, if they still made swords you'd have smiths lining up at your door begging for the secret." He glanced back to the doors of the Namiaglien. "Come on. You still want to see the club, right?"

She folded her arms. "I'm waiting for a friend."

"It's nearly ten," said Richard. "What's he waiting for, his stamped invitation in the mail? Sorry, I ran out of gold leaf while I was making my uniform to welcome him. Are you sure he's coming?"

"I," she said. Her lips thinned. "Yes."

"Did he tell you to wait for him? Because I am deeply willing to testify that you and your elbows can take care of yourselves." He touched her arm. "Come on," he said softly. "You could do with some dancing. You look like you've had a bad night." His mouth crooked, ridiculously charming. "Like some maniac's been jumping on you and scaring you half out of your wits."

"I wonder why that is."

"I have no idea," Richard said, with poker-faced dignity. "Look, I've scouted the club. No murderers, no criminals that I know of..."

"And how do I know that you're not a murderer and a criminal?"

He grinned. "You don't," he said, so cheerfully that it hardly seemed likely. "I could be in the Mafia. But no, Mafia men tend to end up with highly attractive women, and I'm kind of dry on that. I don't suppose you'd be willing to introduce me to someone."

"I'm pretty sure Mafia men aren't supposed to throw themselves desperately at the mercies of women they barely know," Beth said.

"Ah, well," Richard shrugged. "I never said I was very good at being in the Mafia. Probably I'll get the cement shoes and chickenwire treatment in the end." He brightened. "So since I'm nearing the end of my lifespan, you should be a good Samaritan about it. Cheer me up. Dance with me. Talk -- sorry, _don't_ talk to me about your story. Just sit and look smug and secretive."

In spite of herself, she laughed. "Thanks for your confidence in me."

"You'd be very good at it, I'm sure." He tipped a long look at her. "So what do you say?"

"Well," she said, and glanced behind her to the street. The passersby were still laughing, kissing, talking as if they had only a moment to cram in all the words in the world. It was ten, now; Mick hadn't come.

The last of her caution scattered to the wind. "Sure," she said, and let Richard lead her past the imperious bouncer and the dark double-doors, and further on, into the club.

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After a few false starts, he found a street sign to navigate by, and had started to trace a new path to the club when his cell phone rang again. Seizing it, he flipped it open at once. "I'm on my way," he said. "Sorry I'm late; I got, uh, held up."

"Good to know that you've turned psychic in the past few hours," said a voice that wasn't Beth. "Have you ever considered taking that show on the road?"

Tiredly, Mick smoothed a hand over his eyes. "Josef," he said.

"And you sound so happy to hear from me. Stop, I'm blushing. Listen, I've picked up some dead blood I think you might like better than the stuff you get from people who've eaten tofu all their lives."

"It's not like you to be all buddy-buddy like this."

"What can I say? I just closed a deal." He could hear the clink of glasses, the simmering laughter of women in the background. "I need to celebrate. You coming or not?"

"Maybe later. Got something I have to take care of first."

"What, right now?"

Already he'd started to stride faster down the sidewalk. "Yeah," he said.

"A case?"

"Does it matter?"

"I'm just curious. Because usually at this time of night you're holed up in your apartment with your case files, looking like you slouched off the cover of _Brooding Monthly_."

The question hovered on his tongue to ask why Josef would think he wasn't. He bit it down. Occasionally, it was nice to be ignorant of precisely how far Josef's knowledge extended. Before he could ask, however, Josef added: "You're not heading downtown, are you?"

"Matter of fact, I am," Mick said.

Josef's question cracked over the phone like a lash. "Where?"

"The Namiaglien." On the other end of the phone, the human noises cut to an abrupt end as he heard an expensive smash. "What's going on, Josef?"

"Something's going down tonight," Josef said tensely. "I don't want you involved."

"Because you care about my welfare so much?"

"Because it's got nothing to do with you."

"Really," Mick said. "The Cleaner didn't seem to think so."

"Listen to me, Mick," said Josef, sharp and hard. "It's my business. Not yours; not the Cleaner's. Stay out of the Namiaglien."

The sidewalks were growing slowly crowded. Recklessly, he pushed his way past human after human, trying not to think of what nightmarish possibility might come of Beth and something that Josef didn't want him involved in. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"Beth's there."

Josef' exhaled in a brutal hissing rush. "Then get her out of there. Fast as you can. Quick - like little bunnies being chased by less-little tigers."

It occurred to Mick that he rarely, if ever, saw Josef under pressure; the ways in which he expected Josef to react were the ways Josef behaved when he was foiled as a child might be foiled, promising threats that no one ever forced him to carry out.

Tonight, one by one, the layers were being stripped away. That veneer of untouchability was corroding.

And Mick hadn't the faintest clue of what he was about to walk into.

"Josef." He lowered his voice. "What's happening?"

"Nothing," Josef said with a lightness clearly forced. "It's nothing. Just that the path to vampire solidarity is mortared in blood, and some vamps are going to have to find that out the hard way. Go get your reporter."

A street sign flashed by. "I'm a block away."

"Hey. Tell her for me that there are easier ways to get herself killed, okay?"

Mick hung up. Vivid rubies and blues snarled out of the night ahead, and he quickened his pace until the gaudy-brilliant sign came into view: THE NAMIAGLIEN, it declared above a discreet set of doors flung open, in curving letters splendidly ornate. A hard beat throbbed out from the flashing darkness and into the night; but there was no sign of Beth.

Hurrying towards the club, his shoulder slammed into someone else. Out of instinct, he whirled; five strangers looked back at him with empty eyes that glittered strangely insolent. They were an odd group; two of them wore black leather jackets worn and flaking in patches from use. One of the girls gripped a trenchcoat's lapels tightly about her neck and looked him in the eye.

Desire flared in his throat, bitter on the tip of his tongue, as he gazed back at her. The memory of every blooding he'd ever taken flooded through his veins, hot and sweet and sudden. He could taste her like a promise: a sumptuous mingling of all the best bloods he had ever known. If only he could--

His eyes grew silvery. Snared in that transient moment between memory and reality, he started towards her. Struggling, Mick caught himself mid-stride and stopped. His head jerked to a side, inhaling all the bitter drifting scents of night in Los Angeles: the smog-heavy air, tears evaporated, faint touches of smoke and desire.

And he remembered himself.

Stumbling back, Mick stared at the girl. She had not yet glanced away; a little light smile had even risen to the corners of her mouth. Deliberately she tipped her head to a side, hair sliding like dark silk over her shoulder, to leave her throat exposed. And he was nearly caught again; in the almost-tangible sense of her pulse, the promise of her blood-scent.

Beth's face lanced behind his eyes: laughing, startled, shamed sad afraid--

_Dead._

She could very well be in danger and he was staring at a girl he hardly knew, thinking of blood and all the things that made vampires most monstrous. He didn't have time for this.

With difficulty, he turned away and started back towards the doors of the Namiaglien. He didn't look back, even as the girl's unmistakable laughter belled out into the maddening dark. Instead, he focused on the doors.

A bouncer came at him from the side. "Excuse me, sir; this establishment operates by invitation only--"

Hardly slowing, Mick turned and slammed him into the door. "I won't stay," he said, traces of a vampire's sharp hiss resounding in the words. "I'm here for a friend. Once I find her, I'll go." Carelessly he dropped the man, who crumpled to the ground, and walked inside.

The tables were barely outlined by the dazzling breaks of light; in a dim blue corner ringed with spotlights, a DJ was twirling through a fast and resonant set of songs, strung with techno-threaded choirs and electronic instruments. The dance floor was set between the door and that stage; the tables were on the far end, and curved on the borders of the dance floor. A bar was set to his left, shining considerably more clearly than the dancers' space, where everything was a blur of swinging colored lights and heads flung back in ecstasy.

Mick closed his eyes. Fighting off the pungent notes of sweat and lust, he wandered, absently circumventing the paths of others with an inhuman accuracy. At last, he found it: a slim, familiar scent twining through the club.

_Beth._

He followed it about the room, winding through the crowds, hardly aware that others were having to duck out of his way seconds before a crash. All that mattered was staying on Beth's path; all that mattered was finding her.

It grew stronger as he went on until the air felt heavy with the memory of her. He opened his eyes into a dim corner, where Beth was sitting with a stranger, so utterly intent on copying down his answers that she barely noticed the shadow falling across her table.

"Beth," he said, but the music drowned out her name. The stranger was gazing at him with blank-eyed amusement, and Beth hadn't seen him at all. He raised his voice. "Beth!"

She started. Her chair slid back with a groan. "Mick," she said, pulling her fingers through her slick, damp hair. "I didn't think that you were coming."

"I said I would." Josef's warning sounded at the back of his mind. "We have to go," he said. "Now."

"Why?" There was still a faint echo of laughter on the edge of her lips. Mick knew that look; it wasn't an expression of happiness as much as avoiding unhappiness, but he felt some tension in his shoulders unknot anyway as he looked at her. "Mick," Beth said, cocking her head, "is something wrong?"

"I can't explain," he said. "But we have to get out of here."

Now the other man leapt up, smiling. "I take it this is your protector-friend who doesn't like dancing," he said to Beth. He offered a hand with another brilliant look. "I'm Richard," he said. "Richard Corinthian."

Mick blinked once, twice; the name slid through a thousand filters before he remembered where he had seen that name before. He stared at the man - hardly more than a boy, and university-aged - in slow astonishment. "Richard Corinthian," he said. "Your profess--"

"Darling!" Under a glittering song about despair and charming callous things, a girl appeared beside Mick - the girl from outside. She'd slung her trenchcoat over an arm, but the faint scent that rose from her still cut through every sense he had to the heart of things. She draped an arm over his shoulder and pecked him on the cheek. "You really shouldn't try to get away from me like that. It's not nice, you know."

Caught off-guard, he started to form an answer. But before he could, something grazed his spine - and stuck solidly in his heart.

Mick staggered abruptly. He managed only a little gasp.

"Cold, sweetheart?" The girl slid her coat over his shoulders, masking the small lump that the stake made against his back. "He's such a terrible drunkard sometimes," she told Richard and Beth sweetly. "I do hope that he wasn't bothering you."

"You--" he saw Beth hold up a hand, as if she might stop it. Then she let it fall back to the pad on the table. "Do you know him?"

The girl looked down at her, then let her lashes fall over her eyes. "Of course," she trilled. "What a question!" A pause. "D'you? Because he hasn't mentioned you to me at all."

Beth did not speak. After a suitable interval, the girl chattered on.

"I admit I can be awfully green about things, though, so p'raps that's why." She took the opportunity to lurch ungracefully. Her head turned; numbly, Mick felt her stinging breath on his cheek. "Oh, dear," she murmured softly, tragically, and cupped his cheek for effect. "You are drunk, aren't you? My poor sweetheart. Let's go, then." She nodded at the table, and the movement echoed through Mick's frame. "Ta, darlings."

"Wait," Beth said behind them, "I'll - I can help you with him."

The girl tilted an innocent look back at her. "Oh, no," she said, sounding shocked - and perhaps Mick was the only one to hear the little coy note beneath. "You seem like the kind of person whose respect he'd hate to lose. I'm sure he wouldn't want you to see him like this. I can take care of it. You have a nice night out with your boy, darling." And she swerved and ducked heavily through the crowd, making powerful strides toward the door. If Beth called after them, he could not hear it beneath the pulsing notes of a new song.

They made it through with little incident, breaking out into the open night only a few moments later. The bouncer chuckled meanly as they passed. "Not so tough, tough guy, huh!"

"Sorry," the girl threw brightly over his shoulder as his chin jarred on his collarbone again and again. "He's a bit of a vicious drunk!"

She kept up the show for half a block more, cooing and sighing at her alcoholic boyfriend as they stumbled down the road for all to see. Frozen in place, Mick was nearly relieved when she stopped unexpectedly in the middle of the sidewalk and veered into an alleyway. A turn, another turn - and they arrived.

The others he'd seen with her earlier had spread out through the tiny space: lounging against walls and garbage cans, picking with horrified fascination through the dumpsters, and glaring at Mick as he skidded to a stop. No - they weren't glaring at him, he realised; the murderous eyes they were making were all for the girl holding him up.

"Sylvia," a bass-voiced man said. He stood up and lifted his glasses to fix her with a disapproving look. "Don't do that again."

Still propped up on her shoulders, Mick heard Sylvia's mouth slide into a wide grin. Her accent coarsened purposefully. "Do wot?"

"You know what. You're risking the integrity of the group."

"Oh, please. I haven't gotten to be blood-bait in ages." She let her coat fall open, draping onto the ground; at his feet, Mick saw vial after vial of blood sewn into pockets. His teeth clenched; his throat tightened with craving, but still he could not move. "I was due for a little fun."

"We were supposed to go for all of them at once," a blonde woman observed severely. "Not pick 'em off like this. Scavenging the ones that wouldn't have survived anyway." She bent to tweak Mick's nose. "Look at him. Didn't even know enough to lunge for you when he scented it. I bet he isn't more than a decade in."

"Give it up, Maureen," the other man said boredly. He leapt nimbly up to stand on the edges of a garbage can; it wobbled beneath his feet, but he balanced. "It's not like we're going to pull that stake out of his heart so that we can verify your guess, and there's no point in sounding all authoritative if you haven't a shred of proof to back it."

"Oh, 'nuff with the babbling already, Ross," the girl said. "When are we going in for the rest?" Mick managed a strangled questioning noise and she beamed up at him affectionately. "That's right, you gorgeous bit," she said. "We're going in for the rest of your kind. Then we're going to put you all in a nice van and go for a nice drive and take you to a nice house and shove you in a nice incinerator. Won't that be nice?"

"God, Sylvia, _shut up_."

The girl called Sylvia twisted back to grimace at Ross. "Well, if I were a vampy, I'd like to know what was going to happen to me," she said indignantly. "I'd feel an awful twit just standin' there with a stake in my heart. Can't a girl be generous now an' then?"

"You're wasting your time," the oldest of the men said. "The blood's only good to hold for another fifteen minutes or so. After that, not all the vampires will react so strongly and we'll have no way of telling them from human."

Sylvia shrugged. Mick felt her small hands unclasp from his wrist. Her face slid in and out of his field of vision; her eyes showed a dainty and awful emptiness. "So let's get on with it," she said. And before Mick knew it, she let him go.

He fell hard. His body struck the ground with a thud and several piercing cracks; the bones in his wrist, which had landed beneath his hip, screamed agony. A vampire couldn't heal until after the stake had been removed, and his wrist felt as though it was being forced apart into smaller and smaller shards...

He was only distantly aware when the girl slid back into her trenchcoat and crouched down beside him. "Tell you the truth," he heard her confide through the general haze of pain, "I've got the absolute screaming abs-dabs. This is my first job in a while, y'see. Ang never lets me play blood-bait, so. He's a terrible tyrant."

"Stop talking to the monster, Sylvia," the man with the glasses - Ang - said in tones of patient amusement. "You're torturing it."

"Great." Ross leapt off of the garbage can with a crash and clatter. "Let it feel pain. The more, the better. Talk, Sylvia, talk."

"Blood fading," Maureen reminded him as Sylvia got to her feet. "Come on, we've a club full of vamps to stake. Let's get to it."

Sylvia cheered. "Yeah. Slayer powers activate - creatures of the night beware!"

"That," said Ross, after an awful silence, "was the dweebiest thing I have ever heard you say."

A boy spoke up, roughly. "Everyone. Shut up."

"Gav," Sylvia said, "admit that you're just jealous. You want--"

"I said shut up," the boy hissed, with such violence that even Sylvia fell quiet. He turned in the alley, pivoting slowly to glare into the shadows. When he spoke next, his voice was husky with fury. "Someone's watching us."

-

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It had taken some time to leave Richard behind.

("Was that your friend?" he said, gazing with a decided coolness after Mick's exit.

"That's not how he usually is," said Beth quickly.

"God, I'd hope not. My liver would kill me if I abused it like that. Or it'd hire a lawyer and sue me, which would be bad, since I'd have to pay money and lose it at the same time."

But Beth was shaking her head. "He never - _never_ gets drunk."

Richard's eyes found hers. "Not in front of you," he said gently. "But you can see how a man might want to impress someone like you. Show you something he isn't.")

She'd managed to convince him that she had to go, and that she could make it home by herself. Even so, he'd insisted on calling a cab, and had watched her get into it with iron concern.

("Got enough for your news, d'you think?" he said.

She cocked her head, smiling up at him from inside the cab. "Maybe," she said, in spite of her instincts.

"What?" He pressed his hands over his heart. "Only a maybe? That's terrible. Perhaps another meeting should be arranged, then. I haven't told you everything I know." At the fading of her enthusiasm, he added, "My offer still stands. You can bring anybody you like."

Mick and the girl were growing smaller and fainter in the crowd; she could barely see two heads bobbing together that might have been them. "All right," Beth said. "I'll think about it."

"And you might even dance next time?"

She only smiled and shut the door. As the car roared away, the warmth in her expression faded. "Go straight," she told the driver. "I'll tell you where to stop." As he obeyed, Beth craned her neck, following the sidewalk. They blazed past a meandering pair turning into an alley; she caught a flash of their faces before they turned inside.

"Stop!" she said suddenly. "Here."

The cab driver paused; in the sleeting moonlight he looked strangely young. "Lady, you sure? The guy gave me enough to take you to China."

"I'm sure." She opened the door, got out, and followed them into the alleyway without looking back.)

As Sylvia flourished Mick to her group, Beth ducked behind some garbage cans at the mouth of the alley and tried to reason out their words. It made no sense. They'd known what Mick was. And they were -- slayers? _Vampire-_-

A sudden bang made her jump; fortunately, it was at the other end of the alley, where the boy was distastefully examining the spilled contents of the garbage cans he had slammed together.

"Gav," the girl said. "Gav, you sure?"

"Someone's here." He snorted. "I can hear the breathin'."

Beth tried to be very still, to breathe little. But, as she peered between garbage cans to see where he was going next, he turned. His eyes focused on hers.

"Gotcha," he said softly, and raced forward, kicking the cans that had hidden her to either side. Up close, he was small, nearly scrawny - nothing to be afraid of at all. But her instincts were screaming again, and she could not think of anything but fear as he let a knife flicker out of a long sleeve and laid it against her throat. Forced to stand, Beth could see the spread of the alley; the scattered men and women standing to attention -- and Mick lying on the ground, his face split and struggling between vampire and human.

Instinctively she moved towards him, but the blade dug into her skin and she stopped short.

"Sloppy," he said to Sylvia. "You let yourself get followed."

"I did not!" The girl said indignantly, then peered at Beth. "Oh. Never mind. I did." Gav rolled his eyes. "She's the lady from the club who said that she knew our boy here."

"And you didn't follow up to see what she was?"

"Well, she was close enough for the five seconds needed and she didn't react to the bait at all! I thought she was just human!"

One-handed, the boy fumbled with his shirt. From a flap in the back he produced a vial of his own, which he uncorked and waved beneath her nose. It stank pungently of blood. Beth gagged and started to cough, aware all the while that he was watching her with vicious alertness.

"Human," the deep-voiced man pronounced in distaste. With a brutal noise, Gav dismised her. "Gav, Sylvia was right. Enough. We've got real monsters on our hands, we haven't time for this."

"Oh, that's true," another voice said pleasantly. "Although that's mostly because you haven't got time for anything much, really."

Beth glanced up. "Richard?" she rasped.

"You really should have taken that cab," he sighed. "And I'm not just saying that because we're now surrounded by crazed murderers. Although that does help a bit."

"Sylvia," said one of the men, "while in the club, do you happen to remember if you whisked a neon sign out of your pocket that said 'Hello, I am a slayer, here to hunt. Follow me if you want to see what slayers do with vampires'?"

"Do shut up, Ross."

As they argued, Richard was helping her up. Beth gripped his shoulder. "Richard," she said, low and urgent. "We have to find Mick and get out of here. Before they--"

But he only smiled at her. "I know," he said peacefully. "It's okay. I've got a plan."

She started to ask, then saw the shadows falling in line behind him; legions of shadows until the points where they overlapped were darker than the smog-wrought sky. All the dancers, workers, and the bartender who'd smiled thinly when she'd asked on impulse for a Bloody Mary on the rocks - even the cab driver - were standing behind them wearing fanged leers.

They were vampires. That was who the Namiaglien was for: vampires.

"Hey," Richard called to the slayers. His voice took on an awful accent. "Time to meet mah leetle friends!"

There was perfect silence for an instant. Then, one of the slayers swore.

Among the vampires, the bartender stepped out. "That's right," he said, his voice strong and echoing. "Scream, slayers. For you have met your--"

He was interrupted by a burst of fire.

With a flourish, Maureen settled the flamethrower into the crook of her arm. She grinned ferally down at the burning corpse. Slowly, Beth saw the figures moving behind her; each of them bringing out crossbows and machine guns out from beneath their trenchcoats.

"Bring it on, babe," she said.

And the fight began.

Slayers swung into action. Each aimed precisely, never striking anywhere other than the heart. They stood their ground and held it as more and more vampires poured into the alley, crowding around them. They could afford to be clumsier, and they were; several missed entirely and struck each other, but it hardly seemed to matter, so long as a few of them sank a few bites in.

For the slayers, it was an assignment; for the vampires, who were whooping and snickering, it seemed nothing more than a game.

Beth saw the girl kick Mick off to the side before turning to find herself trapped against the wall by a considerably bigger vampire. "Feel free to scream, honey," he crowed, then looked down at his ribs. "A gun?" he said, so loudly that even Richard turned. "Sweetie, do you have any idea what you're dealing wi--"

Coolly, the girl fired. The vampire screamed and fell, writhing.

"Rock salt," said Sylvia clearly. Her small face split into a grin. "Won't kill you, but hurts like a bitch when you heal around it and it dissolves into your bloodstream, doesn't it?"

She was about to fire again when Ang lifted his head from the crowd. "Moonlight!" he shouted hoarsely. "Code Moonlight now, guys!"

Without flinching from their duties, the slayers gathered and began to fight their way through the crowd. The ones at the back pocketed their weapons and flung out nets, dragging them over the bodies to pull them towards the mouth of the alley.

Beth saw Mick's face roil once out of a sea of faces scorched and fanged before he vanished back beneath them. She screamed his name, and would have hurled herself into the fray. But Richard's hand held her firmly back.

"Going to meet your friends the slayers?" he said. She fought his grip, but this time he held on. "Sorry, you don't get rid of me that easily. I told you I was going easy on you before."

"Let me _go_ -- what do you want?"

"Is this really the place to be discussing my wants?" He tossed her a shameless smile as he towed her out of the alley and back to the club. A few vampires fell in around them with the perfect formation of guards. From the shouts and screams, the rest of the club was holding off the slayers at the alley, fighting for their deaths and the time of their lives. "You know, I don't think you've been very honest with me, Beth."

Narrowing her eyes at him, she managed some venom. "I could say the same for you. Club full of _vampires_? I'd say that's newsworthy, wouldn't you?"

"I'm sorry for not telling you all I knew at once," Richard said serenely. She threw a glance back; in the gap between the vampires she saw the slayers starting to pile the bodies into a white van. "Still, it's all right. We'll have plenty of time to be honest with each other."

The space closed, and she could see nothing but Richard, still beaming tranquilly, and the doors to the Namiaglien nearing. "An eternity, you might say."

They stepped inside the club. All the lights had been shut off, plunging them into darkness. Beth had one last scrap of a look at the street: a blurry glimpse of a white van blazing past with a pile of spare bodies dragging in the net behind. Vampires were streaming after it, screaming delightedly.

Then the doors slammed shut, and she could see nothing at all.

-

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**end of chapter two - **_to be continued_

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feedback: is ridiculously enjoyable for me. It makes waking up at seven in the morning after going to bed at five a _lovely_ experience. 

No, really. Particularly if it's long and critical.


	4. THREE: what you love in the end

disclaimer: CBS owns Moonlight, not I.  
author's note: One more chapter to go! ... sort of. An epilogue to come to tie up the last loose ends. The basics have been noted before in the authors' notes of previous chapters - posted originally to Moonlight Fics on Livejournal. Technically no spoilers, but written before the airing of the fifth episode and after the fourth. Implied Mick/Beth.

Sorry it's a tad late! It's been a busy time and I've been addicting myself to a new series. Epilogue should follow shortly.  


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chapter three:_ what you love in the end_

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"I love this place," a voice declared. "Oh, beautiful incinerator--"

"Write your love poems elsewhere, Sylvia. We're still on the job."

At the sound of those echoing words, Mick came awake again. Some part of him had been conscious for the whole nightmarish ride to their destination, awake while they unhitched the net hooked to the back of the van and started to haul it into the building. But that wasn't a part that he wanted to remember - though it wasn't as if he could do anything else, with his limbs frozen by the stake nailed through his heart.

"No incinerators yet," a man announced in round bass tones. "Sir, I take it that our price remains the same."

The man who answered him sounded familiar, though, in a haze of tangled pain and loss, Mick could no longer place the voice to any face in memory. "Oh, did we agree on a price? I thought I just told you to go out and get rid of them, and you agreed like the good little slayers you are."

"I don't see why we don't get rid of _him_," the youngest girl mumbled, pitching the words too low for human ears.

For a vampire, however, it was no trouble at all. Mick heard it easily; a moment later, it became clear that their patron had, too. "You want to get paid, don't you?" he said.

A boy spoke up out of the drawn silence. "Yes, we'd like to be paid," he said, stiffly. "Sir."

"So spread out the bodies. I told you to go after the ringleaders. I gave you specific descriptions. Did you get them?"

"If we didn't," the girl said, "we got a bunch of people who look a _lot_ like them." Still, Mick heard the shuffling of bodies sliding on bodies, bones crumbling as they struck glass.

"Hey," said their patron, "watch the marble. The deal was that I'd pay and you'd dispose. I don't remember anything being mentioned about my having to hire some kind of bone-sweeper after we were done."

"You're a vampire. I'm sure this place has seen a lot more gore than this."

"Yes, but that's _my _blood and gore." The feet that had been thrown about his neck during the ride untangled and glided away, heaved to another part of the floor by a grumpy-faced Sylvia. He threw himself into breathing, but only a sliver of air sifted through his lungs. Then his eyes, flinching wildly without ever shifting from the place where they had locked, found the gaze of someone they recognised.

For a long moment, Josef did not speak. He let the slayers tow three more bodies away. Then, as someone seized Mick's wrists, his voice sharpened. "What did you do to him?"

"What, that one?" Ang stepped forward, peering over his glasses down at Mick's sprawled and broken body. "Oh, I remember. Syl, that was your chase, wasn't it?"

"Not much of a chase," Sylvia put in sulkily, dropping Mick again. "He didn't even try to attack me. I got him in the heart with a stake before he tried anything." Mick felt the nudge of a foot against his protesting ribs. "I think he's still alive." She bent down, her eyes passing close over his. "Are you, you lovely monstrosity?"

"He wouldn't have been," Josef said, hard and fast and focused, eyes never leaving Mick's. "He doesn't hunt humans."

Sylvia cocked her head. "So what does he hunt, then?"

At last, Josef bent over Mick. Seizing the stake by the point, he dragged it out with a twist and a wrench.

Freed at last, Mick gasped. The stench of rotting bodies flew into his throat and twisted, and he doubled over, scattering bones wrapped in stinking flesh as he fought to retch and regain balance. Already he could feel himself healing; the hole in his chest sealing into a thin leaking scar, his broken fingers setting back into place with little wriggles. Busy checking himself for any injuries that had not yet dissolved, he ignored the sudden cacophony in the background as the slayers realised that a vampire had been revived in their midst.

"He doesn't," Josef answered eventually, and the harshness of the statement drowned out all their indignant cries. "It's how he gets himself into _stupid_ situations like this."

"A vampire who doesn't hunt?" Ross scoffed.

"In addition to my instructions about who to hunt," Josef said in a voice like ice, "do you remember me calling you about who to avoid hunting?"

"We tried to keep careful," Maureen protested. "But you don't understand. The battle situation came to us. All the vampires involved had to want to attack us. None of them fit the bill."

Josef whirled. In a blur of inhuman fury, he had her in the air, her feet kicking as they dangled. "Then how," he shouted, "do you explain _him_?"

Immediately, every slayer had their weapons drawn: flamethrowers and crossbows and flying stakes clenched in both hands. They surrounded him, watching as Maureen clawed drops of blood out of the back of his hand and he never flinched.

"Back off, vampy," Sylvia said above her shotgun, teeth gritted into a smile. "You touch one of us, you hurt us all. And believe us when we say that our payback's the queen of bitches. Now, set Maureen down, pay us, and we'll go."

"Sylvia, you haven't been promoted, shut up," Ang ordered. "Mr. Konstantin, I would hate to think that we couldn't do business."

"Oh, were you doing business?" Josef said pleasantly. "I'm sorry, I thought you were hurting someone I trust. Staking one of my people through the heart does not a good business deal make, Ang. Or do you want me to show you with one of your slayers?"

"Josef." Mick's voice slashed through the stillness of weapons raised. Instantly, all of them swung toward him. He lifted his hands in a gesture of defense or surrender; he didn't know which. "It's okay. I'm all right."

"Actually, it's the principle of the matter."

"The principle of the matter, is it?" Maureen was shaking as she struggled. Her voice came out in a rasp that hissed into every ear in the room. "How about explaining why, when we got there, instead of the fifty-odd vamps we were expecting, we got a couple _hundred_. You want to explain that to us, boss?"

"Put her down, Josef," Mick said, at which every slayer in the room bristled, their weapons steadying on him. He cleared his throat. "I meant set her down. On the ground. Alive."

But Josef was barely paying attention to anything save Maureen now; his eyes on her were very bright. "A couple hundred, huh?"

"Yeah," she spat, and a string of vicious invectives.

"In that case," Ang said, "we should call it even. We hit your friend, and you neglected to mention a very important point about the job. We took out about half the bodies; we'll burn 'em and be gone by sunrise."

"Your bedtime," Sylvia clarified snootily.

"Fine," Josef said. Slowly, he lowered Maureen to the ground. Then, at the last moment, he shoved her so that she stumbled back into several slayers at once, efficiently knocking off their aim. Watching them hastily redirect their weapons and click their safety-catches, he tucked his hands into his pockets. "Fine. But you'd better be _gone_ by sunrise. And don't come back. Your business in Los Angeles is done."

"And never happened," Ang agreed with bassy indifference. "You'll be paying by the body, of course."

"Ask the girl by the door for your check on your way out. It should cover everything."

Sylvia narrowed her eyes. "How do we know if we can trust him?" she snapped at Ang.

"Hey," Josef gestured liberally to his own heart. "Stake me if I lie."

"Okay," Mick said. "So explain what's going on."

Josef stopped him with a hand. "You," he said, and there was thwarted rage in his voice, and more that Mick grasped for but couldn't understand. "You weren't even supposed to be there. You should have left as soon as you picked up your clingy blonde. Why did you stay?"

A woman spoke out by the glass doors. "Because I told him to." As she glided out from the shadows, Mick saw the new gleam of old vampire eyes at her back: haunted, tired, determined eyes.

It looked as though the Cleaner had started to call in her favors.

Josef whirled. His eyes snapped on hers in a strike as brilliant and brittle as lightning. He didn't say a single word.

"It's time, Josef," she said.

-

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"...and in a stunning turn of events, newly-opened nightclub the Namiaglien suffered from a monstrous turnout that resulted in an incident suspiciously like mob manslaughter. Several bodies were found at the scene, including those of several local university students." Surrounded by hazy lamplight, the brunette newscaster flashed a media-perfect smile at Beth. "We'll have more details for you after this break. Once again, it's one in the morning, and this is--" She vanished in a flash of electricity as a familiar hand snapped the television off.

"Ah, you're awake."

Beth sat up, then winced; a hand flew to the back of her head, where it touched a feathery bandage. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Richard leaned into the doorway. It was a small room. The walls were steel; the floor was thickly carpeted in something that felt warm and plush on bare skin. "One of my deputies was... overenthusiastic. You don't remember? She knocked you into a railing." He winced at a memory. "Of course, then she lost her balance and rolled down a very long flight of stairs. So there's probably some karmic justice there."

Beth didn't answer.

"I got a vampire who used to be a doctor back in the eighteenth century to fix your head," Richard went on. "He did really well with a quick bandaging. Didn't touch a drop of your blood. Said it was a shame, since you smelled so delicious. If that's any comfort."

Very slowly, she tilted her head up to glare at him. "It's not," she answered, voice low.

"Well, you can't exactly blame him. You can't blame any of them. You're with the slayers. The whole vampire-versus-slayer thing kind of comes with the territory when you consider the fact that the territory is the fact that you guys are trying to kill us."

"I'm not..." Beth lost her thread of words to softness. Confused, she tried to start again. "I don't know any slayers." She half-laughed at the absurdity of it. Only a year ago, she would have scoffed at the idea of using the word 'vampire' for anything other than a boost to the hits on her story. But it had been a very long year. "I don't even know what's going on."

Richard laughed. "Of course you don't," he said, with easy, doubting affection. "Tell you what. You promise to be honest with me and tell me as much as you know, and in return I will tell you everything that I know about the situation. Scoop for scoop. Of course, my scoop is kind of bigger than yours, so you're still getting the better deal. So you should take it. Since, you know, it could be so much worse."

"Do I even want to know how?" she asked.

"Well, I have some colleagues downstairs who think that a good deal would be making you lunch. By which I mean: making lunch _out _of you."

Beth groaned softly. "That's great."

"Yeah, actually, it is. Do we have a deal or not?" He waited; she made no answer. "Since I don't think you want to get eaten, I'll take that as a yes. I'll start."

-

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"You hired _slayers_." Despite having left the vampires who had accompanied her outside, there was brittle menace to her tone.

"Yeah. Is that so surprising?"

"What, having Mick around killing people for you wasn't enough?"

"Hey, Mick kills on his own terms. It's nothing like slaying. I don't interfere." He turned to Mick in speaking demand. "Do I?" Mick shook his head blearily, still trying to recover. Most of the slayers had vanished off to take care of their van, in case it had been filmed on the streets of the Namiaglien. The ones remaining had retired to the level below, to feed the dead vampires into the incinerator. As they passed, Mick had recognised ten of the dead vampires (an irony, that) as the missing students.

Apparently they hadn't been nearly as clever as the professor had thought.

"And Mick wouldn't do the job for you if you asked?" The Cleaner chuckled, cool and bitter. "No. I know you, Josef. You're trying to make a statement."

"Oh, well, if you know so much..." Josef spread his hands. "Go on. Tell me the statement I was trying to make."

"You wanted the vampire community to know exactly how far you're willing to go to hold onto our cover. For the past few centuries, there's never been more than a couple hundred of vamps at a time. Truth be told, that's mostly 'cause of you."

Josef executed an ironic little bow. "Well, thank you."

"But now it's come back to bite you."

"Then let's hope it doesn't suck," he said, straight-faced.

She shot him a severe look. "These past couple of months," she said, "someone's been planning. A bunch of bright humans were gathered. Open-minded humans who could adjust to the idea of vampires. You've kept your ear to the ground, you know where they were meeting."

Josef nodded briefly. "The university," he said.

Mick started. His eyes narrowed. "I was investigating the disappearances--"

"--of the eleven who started everything," the Cleaner confirmed. "They were recruited. They probably decided that things would look less suspicious if they all had a class together."

"Please," Josef said. "University students and their paranoid egos. Who's going to spy on a bunch of barely-twenties?"

"Obviously you were."

Josef waved this away, as if to say that he was the exception to every rule and they might as well grow used to it.

"So who recruited them?" Mick asked.

But the Cleaner's eyes were trained upon Josef, studying his every movement. She hardly spared a blink for Mick. "They've been turning humans and training them at the nightclub. Nobody notices anything in the dark. And if anyone came to investigate, if they found something, they'd clearly be intelligent enough to fit the standard. So they'd get turned, too."

Realisation dawned. "And things just kept growing," Mick said. "The crimewave."

"The newly-turned having fun," the Cleaner said distastefully. "Even if you're only turning the best and the most beautiful, you're still going to get a couple of strays painting the town red."

"Only the best and most beautiful?" Mick repeated. "They were treating vampirism like some kind of -- some kind of _gift_? Immortality without price?"

Now the Cleaner did look at him, and in that single glance was the world of contempt of which she had never spoken. "That's what it's always been, Mick St. John," she said. "You've been treating it like some kind of punishment. Like all vampires are evil. You have no idea how many vampires think that's funny. If you weren't so efficient, you'd get yourself laughed out of town."

"No," he said. "You're wrong. It's not a gift."

"Then what is it?"

"Nothing ever happens without a price." His voice was bare and shaking. "Sure, it's not like it happens on television. We don't lose our souls after one bite. But we're still human underneath all our long lives, and that means that we're still essentially flawed. Only our flaws create bigger mistakes. Because if you're human, you know that you only have a limited time to make up for things you've done. You try to be the best person you can be because tomorrow might not give you the same chances. But if you're immortal, you have forever. So you keep pushing it away, pushing off opportunities to be good and kind, delaying. And in the meantime, you've got bloodlust pounding at the back of your head. So you drink, and you see how weak humans are, and you start to think to yourself that you must be better than them. You were born stronger, born better. They deserve what they get from you. And you spiral down and down and let yourself forget underneath the blood that they should mean anything to you. And that's not a gift. It just means you're a monster. That's why it's important to remember what we are."

After a pause, he added, "Being intelligent or beautiful doesn't make them any better. It just makes it easier for them to catch prey."

"Is that what you're thinking too?" the Cleaner asked Josef.

Josef shrugged tensely. There was something sharp about the movement, like a set trap waiting to bite. "Hey, all that holiness stuff is Mick's territory. I don't deal with it."

"Then why did you send slayers after them? Most of them are certainly a lot smarter than the people we deal with now."

"Because we can't afford to be revealed now," Josef snapped. "Okay? No matter how many hundreds of vampires she sires, there are _billions_ of humans who only need one sharpened _pencil_ apiece to take us out. You saw what a few slayers did, and there were _hundreds_ of vamps." His eyes flared silver at the Cleaner. "Do you get it now? It's not about superiority. It's about the fact that when it comes down to numbers, the mob's going to win. Every time."

Forcibly, Josef calmed and shrugged again, head twisting this way and that as if to loosen his shoulders.

"And that's just the way it is," he said.

-

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-

She hadn't meant to tell him as much as she had. But it was hard when every exhausted nerve cried out for the small comfort of a stranger's smile, however dangerous he was. Harder still since he seemed to guess the conclusion to every half-sentence that slipped out of her mouth.

"So your friend, this-- Dick--"

"Mick." Richard persisted in getting his name wrong. Beth suspected that he was delighted by the idea of saying 'Dick' as many times as possible.

"Mick St. John." Richard sounded warmly thoughtful. He leaned back. "The vampire. And you two are good friends?"

"Good enough," she said.

"In love?" Richard asked, then lifted his hands. "Sorry. Just because you're a hostage doesn't mean that I have the right to ask personal questions. Feel free to slap me. I'll tell them when I go outside that a torture session got out of hand. I'll wear it like a battle scar. It'll probably be the only battle scar I ever get." But he kept his eyes on her, as if awaiting an answer.

And she couldn't even be sure if she had one. (How _did_ she feel about Mick St. John? a tiny voice asked at the back of her mind. Vehemently, she lifted a mental heel and squashed it.)

"You never did tell me what the crime wave had to do with the club," she said. (She couldn't escape. There were no windows, and the only door out was guarded by a vampire. There was nothing in the room with her, so she couldn't stage an act. All she had was Richard, and the answers he could offer.)

"Didn't I?" Richard remarked carelessly. "That was silly of me. You should have guessed, anyway. It sounds as if you've enough experience with your friend Mick to know."

She sighed and pressed her hands to her head.

"Guess," prodded Richard. "Or do you want hints? Oh, I could do hints. Maybe in a kind of Charades format--"

"The newly-turned," she blurted, to forestall the headache of Richard trying to act out the complex reasons behind a crime wave.

Very slowly Richard grinned. "Good," he said. "The newly-turned do get a little clumsy sometimes. They don't understand very clearly that they can't have everything they want just yet. They get impatient. Then, of course, they get copycats, and their copycats get copycats, and before you know it, the city's seeing a crimewave like none before. Don't worry, you'll have just enough time to release an overarching story on it. Then it should die down, and it won't matter anymore."

"How are you going to stop them?"

"Easy," Richard said. "We'll ship them off to other countries."

"Oh." Beth raised her head, both trying not to feel woozy and to distract him. If he thought she was cooperating... "I see you're already starting to reenact American history. Forcible deportations..."

"Well, if you put it like that, I'll be looking forward to the bit where the women pitch their bras onto a fire and do an angry dance. But no. It's not so much an exile as... a new beginning." She frowned questioningly, and he continued. "We've got contacts in other countries - the ones most politically powerful right now. That'll get them clean backgrounds they can live with for a while, quietly as they can. And they will be pretty quiet - you don't know silence 'til you've met the dead." He chuckled; she did not. "Then, of course, eventually they'll be eligible to find their way to political prominence. In monarchial countries, we might have the tabloids discover that they have some kind of long-lost claim to the throne. With countries ruled by elections - well. You know how persuasive vampires can be. One way or another, they'll find ways on their own. Vampires are pretty cunning by nature."

"They?" Beth said confusedly, pouncing with a journalist's alertness on the turn of a word. "But I thought you--"

Richard laughed, clear and delighted. "Oh, no," he said, amused. "I'm the last to be turned. I asked to be. I was the one who brought the rest of them into it, after all, and I have my own plans."

"But if you're not a vampire, then how did you find out about them?"

He smiled gently. "You've been asking questions," he said. "That's good. I want you to. But you're asking all the wrong ones." He stood; his shadow fell over her in a huge swoop of darkness.

"The real question," Richard said, "the one you should be asking, is: why have I told you all of this?"

-

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"She's still at the Namiaglien," Mick said. "I have to go get her. Now."

"Oh, sure," Josef said. "Several hours later, after being dragged behind a van. You're not going by yourself."

Mid-step to the door, Mick pivoted back to stare at Josef. "_You're_ coming?"

"No," the Cleaner said. "And neither am I."

"Ah, my own personal walking answering machine," Josef said, gazing at the Cleaner. "I don't suppose you do dishes."

"I'm not going to wait while you pull up your resources." He nodded jerkily at the Cleaner and at the shadows of the vampires waiting for her outside. "And your guys better not try to stop me."

"I brought them," the Cleaner said, "to make sure that Josef understood how serious I was. No more vampire killings without reason. No more _slayers_."

"You know, I don't get it," Mick said. "Josef, but not you. Why do you care whether there are slayers or not if they aren't trying to kill you?"

The Cleaner fixed him with a glare, pinned him to the spot. "Mick St. John," she said, and for the first time he was aware of the accent that underlay her words, that now rolled over her speech like a wave. It was harder than anything he could name, as if it had coalesced out of the ancient darkness from which humanity had crawled to become the first words. "I am older than you are; older than you could imagine. This has always been my way. I clean up. Vampires owe me favors. I don't have a name anymore. Just a title, and that's good enough for me. You think I want my world to change?"

"It's going to change eventually," Mick said.

She lifted her chin in ancient defiance. "Then I'll deal with it," she said. "Eventually."

"Deal with what?" Ross said from the bridge over the pond. "We're done," he added, inclining to Josef with the jerky displeasure of one who has seen one's colleague dangled in the air like a doll. "Boss."

"Us," Maureen said with sudden feverishness from behind him. "God, please let it be us. She must be over a millenia. We've never faced someone like that. How excellent would that look on our credentials?"

The Cleaner tossed her a contemptuous look. "Too bad you'll never find out," she said. Something of her old, gutteral speech lingered in her throaty enunciation. She coughed, once, and strode out without another word.

Maureen made a faint sad noise.

Josef went over to the wall lined with computers, idly glancing over the graphs flashing over each screen. "Eh, are you all the ones left?"

"Just the three of us," Ross confirmed.

"The rest have gone down to breakfast down the road," Sylvia put in. "Weak jerks. We're doing a job."

"Great. I've got another one for you."

"We'll take i--" Sylvia started, but Ross cut her off.

"What's in it for us?"

"A bonus," Josef said. He turned and nodded to Sylvia. "A chance to use your shotgun. Plus, you can lead the mission yourself."

Sylvia beamed. "Done!"

"Wait," Ross said. "Why would Sylvia get to be in charge of the mission?"

"'Cos I'm loads smarter than you and I'm much better-looking and the vampy knows it, darling." Sylvia twinkled at him. "So shut up and let the girl handle it, aye?"

"On one condition."

"Oh, sod."

"Vampires are like lawyers, honey," Maureen said. "Get used to it." She glanced at Josef. "What is it?"

"You have to go," Josef said. "Now. With him." He waved at Mick. "And don't _kill_ him this time."

"Hey," Mick said.

"Of course we wouldn't," Sylvia said with perfect dignity, gathering her clinking coat around her small body. "We're professionals."

-

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-

The doors to the Namiaglien were open when they arrived - unexpected, given the rising sun. The police had taped off the area, Mick saw, and the bloody streak flaring down the road; but that meant nothing. Vampires liked revolving doors, hidden rooms, secrets where they could conceal themselves. They could have lain quiet in obscure spaces and waited for the inspection to pass. It wouldn't have been hard.

"Now," he said. Sylvia made to step past him; holding his breath, he held her back. "When we go inside, I don't want you to kill anyone immediately. Wait for my signal."

"Because they might be your girlfriend?" Sylvia said brightly. "Don't worry, I know what she looks li--"

"No," Mick said. "Because they deserve a chance."

"To do what, kill us all?" Ross muttered. "Typical vampire."

"If you do not harm us, we shall not harm you." They all turned to look at the source of the voice: a vampire who couldn't have been more than nineteen. He hugged his thin arms to himself and adjusted his spectacles, sucking absently on his fangs. "That is the rule. This is the holy hour."

"I thought vampires didn't believe in holy," Maureen said. "St. John?"

But Mick was already striding inside.

He heard them trailing after him, grumbling. "...being paid by the body and we can't even use that," one of them muttered indistinguishably. "Honestly. What kind of bonus is it going to end up being? Two dollars, maybe?"

"Shut up, Sylvia," Maureen hissed patiently. "The nice thing about leaving vampires is alive is that it means you have some to kill later. Save it, keep it to yourself, and keep your eyes open for opportunities for them to harm us so that we can harm them."

"Good plan."

The room was crowded with vampires; they moved cautiously past them without speaking. Automatically, Ross dropped to the last position of the formation, covering their backs as Sylvia and Maureen blocked either side. But none of the vampires moved; their eyes gleamed hungry and silent in the shadows.

"You know," Richard said from the center of the dance floor, "when even I can hear you, it's a really lousy plan. I'm still human." Sylvia flashed him a smile, and he turned. His eyes met Mick's without spark: gaze striking gaze. Still, there was something familiar about it, as if someone he recognised was looking at him out of a stranger's eyes.

Everything else dissolved as he saw Beth.

She looked very calm, though her paleness shone out in the gloom. A white bandage lightly stained with red had been wrapped about her head, and she touched it now and then as if to reassure herself that it was still there.

She looked up as he did, and her eyes widened imperceptibly, illuminatingly blue. "Mick," she said.

"Ah, the famous Mick St. John," Richard said smoothly. "We've been expecting you."

At the sound of his voice, all his instincts dissolved into one mad and reckless stream. Mick breathed deep; the air around Richard smelled human. All at once, a plan leapt together.

"Oh, yeah?" he said, tensing. "Were you expecting _this_?"

Inhumanly quick, he burst into a run towards Beth. But the crowd around him was inhuman, too, and there only needed to be one to stop him. They surrounded him and he slowed and stopped, struggling but caught.

Behind him, he heard the clang and bangs of the slayers firing up their weapons.

"Lay low," Richard called. "We won't hurt Mick. Really, we just want to talk. You're wasting your flamethrower time," he added to Ross, who looked sour. "Don't you think you should be using it when you can't actually flame people down? No, we just want to talk. Hold your fire. Literally."

Mick lunged, but the throng closed around him and cut him off in a sea of a thousand unfamiliar faces, all dreary with the same expression of dedication. Struggling in their midst, he called, "What do we have to talk about?"

"Well, Beth, for instance." Richard flourished a hand at her. "You must wonder why we've saved her - why, even though they can't stop themselves from trampling the town, nobody's so much as nibbled on her. It's not that she isn't clever enough, after all. She's bright like ten million lightbulb jokes. And you must know exactly how beautiful she is. So, why?"

"She's vampire-kryptonite?" Sylvia called, prodding cheerfully at a vampire with her shotgun. Warily, he drew back. "Signal yet, Mick?"

"Not yet," Richard said for him. "No, but Mick... I think you can guess." And with one sharp shove, he pushed Beth forward.

Like a sea, the vampires parted silently between them, and she stumbled through them to fall directly into him. With a little shock, Mick caught her. His arms tensed about her form as if they had been waiting for this all along, feeling her warmth with a sharp, aching familiarity. For a moment, time faded into simplicity; she was blood and he was bone, and they were warmed and necessary to each other.

Richard's voice broke the spell.

"She's yours," he said. "You're the one to sire her."

"What?" He broke from her, backing away in instinctive horror. "No. I won't. I won't."

"Immortality--"

"Not like this."

"Don't you want her to live forever?"

He settled into place and looked over the heads in the crowd to Richard. "What are you trying to do?"

"Darling," a fluted voice breathed. "He's not trying to do anything."

Mick turned slowly. Around him, he realised, the vampires were falling; not into swoons, but bows, fallen positions like worship. Two had seized one of Beth's arms at either side and were dragging her down with them.) And even before he met her eyes, he knew whom he would see.

"Oh, Mick."

(_No matter how many hundreds of vampires she sires_, Josef had said, and Mick had heard him and absorbed the words without ever understanding what they meant. Josef had known.)

Her name clawed sourness from his throat.

"Coraline," he said.

She wandered toward him in steps light as a dancer's, and he did not move because he could not remember how, as he always forgot for those first few moments in her presence. She was beautiful. She had always been - and would be for all eternity. And a thousand unlikely things made sense now: Richard unsired but obsessed, the vampires fawning before her. It was easy to mistake Coraline's madness for something divine; it would be easy, too, to take that a step further and to worship her.

But all his thoughts wrenched away from that as she started towards him.

"You know that the first turning is special," she murmured, hollow and fond, stepping daintily over bowed heads. "It creates a special bond between you and the one who turns you, and you don't want her and you can't have that because you haven't broken from me."

"No," he managed.

"You're mine," she whispered, close as a ghost. "You always have been."

"Coraline--" for an instant, however he struggled, he could only remember her name. "What are you doing here?"

"For you," she said, and he could feel the heated sting of the words on his lips. Her eyes were huge and dark. "Remember? You said that you were a monster when you aren't; oh, Mick, you are so far from a monster. And once everyone else is like that, once the truth is out and they show their true faces in fear of danger... you'll see. You're not alone. The world is the monstrous one; what you see in yourself is only the reflection."

"What--" He swallowed with difficulty. "How. How did you survive the fire?"

She sighed gently, perplexedly. Then, she rose to her tiptoes to whisper a name into his ear: "_Josef_."

"I'm really bored," Sylvia announced loudly, after a short, resonant silence. "Are you really bored? Because I'm really bored."

Both Ross and Maureen started. "Sylvia--"

"They're _vamps_," Sylvia said, and even beneath the old spell of Coraline's eyes and voice, Mick could hear the crackle of fury. "We kill vamps. That's what we do. And I'm not going to stand here while they whisper to each other. I'm not being paid to play an extra in some kind of vampire soap. Hey--" She turned and fired into the nearest. He staggered back, howling, clutching the points on his chest where skin was stretching over embedded salt.

And the enchantment that Coraline had woven over her audience splintered as, suddenly, the slayers were confronted on all sides.

"Damn you," Maureen was shrieking over the blast of her flamethrower. "Damn you, you idiot, when I get out of this I am going to _nail your ears_ to two opposite walls!"

But Mick wasn't listening any more; he was looking for Beth. In an instant, he found her, lying prone on the ground as the vampires who had been guarding her rushed toward the three slayers. Her head lolled against his throat as he gathered her into his arms.

Coraline had turned from the riot, too. As he turned to go, she laid a hand at his shoulder. "You don't love her," Coraline said.

He looked at her, once, then started to carry Beth out. Not once did he turn from the door, even as she called his name again and again, long and soft and plaintive in the bloody darkness behind him.

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It was a long walk back to her apartment, but he couldn't trust the buses. Even if the slayers had killed most of the vampires that Coraline had sired in an effort to create a monstrous world for him, he couldn't be sure that all of them were gone. For now, at least, worn down to bone and with Beth unconscious in his arms, he could take no chances.

So he walked down the empty streets, past broken streetlights and the rising dawn, back to the building where she lived. Fumbling carefully through her pockets, he started to unlock the door. It swung open before he could finish, leaving him staring at a bleak-eyed Josh.

Who gazed down at the woman in his arms in blank despair. "Oh."

Mick heaved an exhausted sigh. Automatically, like a decent host, Josh stepped to a side. He strode past to lay her gently on the sofa. "It's not what you think," he said. A hand hesitated over a blanket. Josh nodded brusquely, and Mick unfolded it to spread it over Beth.

By his side, Josh stood straight, hands on his hips. "And what do I think it is?"

"Nothing." He gave up. "I don't know. Don't be too hard on her. She's had a rough time. Don't ask too many questions, either."

"Where's she been?"

"That's a question." On his way out, he slowed, turning back. In the frame of the doorway he could still see Beth slumped into the couch, sleeping soundly.

He met Josh's eyes. "Take care of her."

But even as he said it, he knew from the look in the other man's eyes that Josh was no longer certain if he could.

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He hurried back, stumbling across cracked sidewalks and wincing in the starting flare of dawn. By the time he arrived, the Namiaglien was only ashes and ruins.

The neon lights rose out of the crumbled wreckage of brick and wood in unexpected jolts, bright bones amid the endless stretch of scorched desert. He studied it for a little while, waiting for some sign: a hand to clutch at the sky from the grey dunes, a wind to blow it away. Then, with a shivering little sigh, he turned.

And nearly ran into Richard.

The former student tilted him a mild, lop-sided smile. "She left you a message," he said, holding out a scrap of paper. They both knew who was meant by _she_.

"And she left you behind?"

Richard Corinthian smiled his casual, confident red smile. "We'll see," he said.

The first words snared Mick's eye. He started to read. By the time he remembered to look up for Richard, he had disappeared, leaving only the message as proof that he had ever been there.

_My dearest, my heart, my darling,_

_I've waited so long to see you again. I can wait a little longer. There will be other times; there will always be. We are destined, you and I. I didn't chase you this time because it is inevitable and you will always circle back to me, so what does it matter? We have eternity and I can wait._

_Oh, don't you understand yet? This was all for you. But I see that you don't want it, so I've taken care of it for you. Fire, as you left me in fire - but I forgive you for that, I do. I understand even the slayers, so I've given them the same that I've given to all my children but you._

_You are the only one of them left, as you should have been in the first place. I understand now. I understand._

_I've left the bones of the slayers in the cinders for you. They died as they should have died. You shouldn't have brought them here; now I'll have to begin again, elsewhere. But I'll surprise you again, you'll see. I'll make the world as you need it to be, and we shall love each other forever._

_I know you love me. You'll see that soon._

_Be careful, my love. I will come again._

_Coraline_

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**end of chapter three -** _to be continued_

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_Author's Note: 'Corinthian' tends to mean 'indulging in luxury and licentiousness'. 

I named the Namiaglien for a very silly reason. Spell it backwards, and you have the name of an author who wrote a book called _Coraline_. He also wrote a comic series in which there was a character called 'The Corinthian', but I didn't think of that until after I named Richard. It's a nice connection to make, though.

feedback: is lovely. I'm always glad to see it, and I'm still very grateful for the reviews that I've gotten so far. So here's to you guys.


	5. epilogue

disclaimer: You cannot have made it this far without taking note of all the other disclaimers previous to this one. Come on. They were _right there_. Go back and read them if you want the reminder as to who owns Moonlight. I'm too tired to come up with a coherently witty one for the epilogue.

author's note: And we've found our way to the end. Late again (cough), but on the more cheerful side, Everybody Wants To Rule The World broke 1000 hits! (No, not per chapter. Are you crazy?) I'm astonished but more than a little flattered, even though I know that it's probably just one maniac sitting on a page refreshing constantly to get my hopes up. Thank you for reading and (occasionally) for reviewing! This is the end of the road for this particular fic, since by next episode it'll probably be AU and as much as I love my dead slayers, I'm not all that fond of AU.

Other fics will be up later, though. I have two weeks' worth of unposted material.

Hope you enjoy this last bit!

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epilogue  
  
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He spends hours fishing the bones of the slayers from the ruins. When he has gathered them all, he has them buried in a churchyard.

It seems only fair.

Afterwards, he paces his apartment restlessly, holding in all the words and brittle strength that would smash everything in sight if only he would allow it. He doesn't try to reason out what he thinks of Coraline's surfacing from death; he's long ago given up on the idea that anything tied to Coraline can be rational. She walks in madness, and it trails contagiously in her path.

He believes in responsibility, in a strict moral code, and in fairness; he always has. But one can't ask someone only clinging to sanity by chance to right her wrongs. It's not fair, and the fact that it isn't leaves him irrationally unbalanced, capable of neither accepting the matter nor of leaving it behind. He's never liked anything he didn't understand, either.

But it wasn't entirely her fault after all. Josef had saved her. And Josef - Josef, he understands. Josef is close and easily blamed, and over the hours, all that helpless rage transmutes into something pure and simple and mindless.

He drives out of the city still drowning in it, a fury that pierces down to the bone. Stalking across the stone bridge in the pond, he finds Josef sitting alone in one of his twisted, fashionable chairs, gazing at the colors the screensavers flash over the ceiling.

For a moment, Mick hates himself for being so easily predicted - Josef, after all, is never alone if he can help it. He's probably arranged the entire scene ahead. Then the thought fades, until he remembers only the sensation of hatred like fuel, a jolt better than blood as it courses beneath his thoughts.

Together they draw the silence to a snapping point before Mick bursts out with the words. "Aren't you even going to _try_ to give me a reason?"

Josef gazes up at him from behind the glass, unrepentant. His hand turns; light glances off the smooth edge and into his eyes. "What, do you want me to explain?"

"Yeah." A beat. "Why'd you save her?"

"Oh." Josef drinks absently. "You wouldn't have? And here I thought you loved her."

Part of the reason he never argues with Josef is because Josef, weighed with centuries of human cunning and business finesse, knows exactly where to hit him. He flinches, but manages after a moment to look Josef square in the eye. "I did."

"Before you realised what she was." He pauses again, sipping theatrically at the blood. "Oh yeah. True love, that."

A memory burns in his veins. "She was going to turn a _little girl_ so that--"

"So that what? Have you even thought about her reasons?"

"What possible reason could be good enough for that?"

Josef laughs up at him. "Think about it, man. She falls in love with something you're supposed to pick out of your teeth. But she doesn't; she decides that she wants an eternity with you. So she turns you. Gives you the chance to live forever--"

"As a murderer."

"People have killed for love before," Josef says. "It's not like you'd have been the first. Anyway, she turns you. And you run from her."

"She made me into a monster."

"Wrong," Josef says, almost sharply. "She made you into what you could be if you'd stop denying yourself and pretending that holier-than-blessed-water attitude is going to get you anywhere."

Mick scoffs, half-laughing without being in the least amused. At last he turns, hands still dangling from his pockets. "That doesn't explain anything."

"I didn't save her," Josef says.

"She says you did."

He tips back the glass and drains it with a sigh. "I gave her the funds to go into hiding until she could heal. That's not saving her; that's an investment."

He almost asks what Josef's investing in. But the answer's obvious: as daring a businessman as Josef is, he likes insurance - to have all his sources backed up. And what better insurance to take out on a brooding detective than the woman who turned him?

"A tip," Josef adds. "If you're going to try to kill a vampire with fire again, make sure that the whole body burns. If you miss the head or the heart--" he clicks between his teeth in a parody of sadness.

"I'll keep that in mind," Mick says tensely. "Thoughts on any vampires I should be killing?"

Josef only looks at him, rapt in silence, without answer.

It's strange, Mick thinks, that this is the first time he's seen Josef do something without solid monetary reasons or personal preferences to back it up. It's almost as if he's operating by some kind of moral code. And it's good, he supposes, that Josef's found something to be moral about, but he hasn't the time to decipher the twisted logic behind Josef's thoughts, and he's not sure that he has the patience to care.

Stripped of words and rage, Mick turns on his heel and leaves for the night.

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Beth wakes, cold.

It is late and dark. All of the lights have been shut off, but for one; it shines wanly out of the space reserved as their working domain from behind the corner. She rises to her feet and follows its trail, into the office.

Josh is sitting at the desk, staring tiredly at the clean wood. As she approaches he lifts his head from his hands and smiles at her ruefully in that old familiar way. All at once, the events of the past two days seem distant, unreal: a procession of nightmares on parade. The mad-eyed woman; Richard with his empty, cutting lightness; vampires and slayers destroying each other with fangs and fire.

None of it seems likely with Josh, who is ordinary and smiling and true. "Hey," he says softly. "Didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't." She tucks her hands under her arms. As she comes closer, she sees the cardboard boxes lined neatly beneath the desk, half-full of documents and binders and pictures. "What are you doing?"

"I, uh--" he glances down, then meets her eyes again. "Organizing. Just, uh, organizing some stuff." He reaches out, thumbing her shoulder; his hand is warm on her skin, and out of absent habit she moves into the touch.

Josh looks away. His hand falls. "I called your work," he says abruptly. "When I realised that you hadn't come home. I told them you were missing. You should probably--"

"Yeah, I will. Tomorrow morning." Why, she wonders, does it feel as if they're walking on the edge of a precipice, skirting the borders of something without voice? He hasn't asked her once where she's been, and there's something she cannot read when she looks at him. "Josh, are you sure that you're--"

"If you're going to tell me where you've been," Josh says, "I just want to say that... I don't want to know."

She stares at him blankly; it costs her a moment to understand what he means. "What?"

"You were right. I wasn't treating you like a rational adult. Where you go, what you do... that's all your business. Not mine." He waits, as if for an answer; with none forthcoming, he turns back to the boxes. "I'm just going to..."

"Yeah," Beth manages, and even smiles at him a little, though there's no heart in the gesture. "Sure."

She walks back to the couch and lies down, though she does not - cannot - sleep. She is hardly aware that she is waiting, but she is. All night, she lies awake, eyes open and ears pricked for the tell-tale footsteps, walking out the door with all her certainties.

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It would have been easier if, after the expected awkward exchange of thank-you-for-saving-my-life-from-crazed-vampires and you're-welcomes, they never spoke of it again. But what they have isn't easy, so they do. They quarrel, laugh, and peck apart the details of the incident until it crumbles to the subjective faintness of memory.

Later, though, she comes to think of it as a strange kind of symmetry: the end of one phase, and several new beginnings.

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**the definite end**

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**feedback: is awful. (What, reverse psychology doesn't work?) Well, I was lying. Feedback is always charming and a delight to receive. I just don't reply to it because I'm never sure whether it's appropriate. 


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